


cancel all your reservations (no more hesitations)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, in which the author comes up with many thinly veiled excuses for tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 05:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11548050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: “You’re sending me on a two-man undercover,” Bucky says, helplessly, “staying in avineyard retreat,alone, withWilson.”“Pack your swim trunks,” Daisy adds, “apparently it’s got a hot tub.”Bucky looks at Sam. Sam looks back at Bucky. Sam’s arms are crossed over his chest, his forearms bare. Bucky carefully doesn’t look at Sam’s forearms, or the way his t-shirt is pulled tight over his shoulders, straining just a little at the seams. Bucky’s not looking at that at all. He makes eye contact, careful to keep his face neutral.Sam’s eyes are soft and dark. Maybe a little amused. He has very long eyelashes.Bucky swallows hard.“Great,” he says. “That’s just— great.”





	cancel all your reservations (no more hesitations)

Bucky should have known this assignment was a _bad fucking idea._

“It’s nothing major,” Steve says, laying a tablet down in front of him and flicking the dossier of information up onto the display screen. “Just an undercover thing, shouldn’t take longer than a week. Two at the outside. Nat and I would do it, but there’s a thing Tony wants an assist on, and you know how I’m trying to play nice with Tony these days. Repair all the rifts in the team.” Those last few words are in air quotes, Steve’s tone of voice expressing exactly what he thinks of the chances of _playing nice_ with Tony Stark, but Bucky still feels kinda guilty. A lot guilty.

“You know I can just—” he starts, and Steve frowns. Shakes his head.

“Not an option.”

“But it’s just,” Bucky tries again, pressing his carbon fiber fingertips against the glossy wood of the table, “his problem is with _me_. We all know it. I can go back into cryo.” _I don’t mind_ , he wants to say. Doesn’t really know how, and Steve’s face is doing something that hurts more than the feeling of needle-sharp ice crystals melting, too-slow, in the back of Bucky’s throat.

“ _Not_ an option,” Steve says, more forcefully this time. The muscle in his jaw twitching with the effort of clenching it, and Bucky takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, looks away.

“Anyway,” Sam interjects, kicking at Bucky’s ankle under the table, “Mr Freeze here goes back into cryo, who’s gonna do the Starbucks run for me every morning? Steve never gets my order right.”

It breaks the mood. Bucky flashes Sam a quick, grateful grin, knowing he’s done it on purpose to defuse the tension; Sam just rolls his eyes. Fine, Bucky thinks. Whatever.

“So,” Sam continues, swiping at the tablet. “Undercover, huh? What is it, intel gathering? You know I’m not a spy, Rogers, your boy here’s better equipped for that. Might have to cut his hair, though. Doesn’t exactly look super undercover right now.”

“My hair is just fine,” Bucky mutters. “You love it, Wilson, don't lie.”

“Your hair is an emo mess, man,” Sam tells him, and they've had this conversation half a dozen times before, which is probably why Steve meaningfully clears his throat to cut it off before it begins.

“It’s not exactly spy work,” Steve says. Swipes the screen again, pulling up the details. “We think someone’s got their hands on a supply of Terrigen crystals. Traced the smuggling operation back here, but we can’t figure out how they’re distributing them. We just need you to scope it out, do a little investigation, see if you can fill in the gaps. You’ll have SHIELD support if you need it.”

“We’re doing SHIELD agent grunt-work now? That’s cold, man. I thought I was still an Avenger.”

“You _are_ ,” Steve says, “jeez, Sam, of course you are. They’re just kinda down on resources at the moment, we’re at a loose end, it felt kind of rude to say no. You know, after all the help they gave us while we were technically fugitives, and all.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, “okay, you got me there. Christ, I swear you’re a soft touch, Rogers. Okay, okay. Where are we going?”

“Right here,” Steve says. Pulls up a map and zooms in.

“That’s Napa Valley,” Sam says blankly. “That’s, like, vineyard country, Steve, not the center of a fucking Terrigen smuggling operation.”

“Yeah, it’s right in Napa,” Steve agrees. “Daisy traced it back to this vineyard. Like I said, a simple thing, nothing major. Work on your tan.”

“It’s fall,” Sam says. “Too cold for tanning. You’re not gonna stop making that face until we say yes, huh.”

“You picked up on that too, huh,” Bucky sighs. Sam laughs, just a little. Nudges Bucky’s foot under the table again.

“The Steve Rogers Earnest Face is pretty hard to miss, I gotta say. Okay, okay. Vacation to Napa, shit, it’s not the worst mission I’ve ever been assigned. You want us to catch up with Agent Johnson for the details?”

“Please,” Steve says, shoulders sagging in relief as Sam and Bucky head for the door. “Thanks, Sam. I owe you one.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Bucky mutters under his breath. Catches Sam’s amused smirk.

“We could have kept you on ice,” he tells him, lighthearted. Bucky shrugs.

“Wasn’t so bad,” he says. “It was restful.”

He can’t make these jokes around Steve. Likes the fact that Sam just snorts with laughter.

 

Here’s what Steve failed to mention: the mission has _very specific_ undercover parameters.

“Pack smart casual,” Daisy tells Sam and Bucky in their slightly more in-depth briefing later that morning. Steve’s never been great with fine detail; Bucky might have a touch of brain damage, but he can remember that goddamn much from the war. “Coulson says that means just a casual suit, no tie, leave the tac gear at home. Whatever, interpret that how you want, you know how he is. I’ve emailed your booking details and reservations, you’re booked for a winery tour tomorrow at midday, dinner at eight.”

“Dinner,” Bucky repeats, and Daisy looks up. Smiles, just a little.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Dinner. At the winery restaurant.”

“And when you say _booking details_ ,” Sam says, like he has a suspicion and needs to clarify something. Daisy’s smile gets wider.

“We booked you a cabin,” she says. “Well. A cottage. It’s very nice, according to the website. Marketed as a ‘vineyard retreat’, whatever that means. Luxury accommodation, overlooks the vineyards with a view out to the mountains, you’re basically on a paid vacation. Enjoy, I guess.”

“A cottage,” Bucky says. Clears his throat. Daisy nods.

“Pack your swim trunks,” she adds, “apparently it’s got a hot tub.”

Bucky looks at Sam. Sam looks back at Bucky. Sam’s arms are crossed over his chest, his forearms bare. Bucky carefully doesn’t look at Sam’s forearms, or the way his t-shirt is pulled tight over his shoulders, straining just a little at the seams. Bucky’s not looking at that at all. He makes eye contact, careful to keep his face neutral.

Sam’s eyes are soft and dark. Maybe a little amused. He has very long eyelashes.

Bucky swallows hard.

“Great,” he says. “That’s just— great.”

 

“I just,” Bucky says, soon as Daisy’s done with the briefing, “I just gotta—” and takes off, aware that it came out a little strangled and also that Daisy and Sam are both maybe staring after him. He’s just gotta catch up with Steve, is all. It’s urgent.

“Steve,” Bucky hisses, spotting him in the hall. Steve turns around, drops the ever-present tablet down to his hip. Slows his walk so Bucky can catch up.

“Hey, Buck,” he says, irritatingly sincere. “What’s up?”

“I can’t go on this mission,” Bucky tells him. “Come on, Steve, you _know_ I can’t— you should do it. Or send Wanda, I don’t know. Send _Clint_.”

“What’s the problem?” Steve asks, “it’s not the arm, the new one is totally undercover with that skin mask,” and Bucky would actually believe he was being earnest in his obliviousness if not for the smirk hovering just at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re sending me on a two-man undercover,” Bucky says, helplessly, “staying in a _vineyard retreat_ , _alone_ , with _Wilson_.”

“Sam’s great,” Steve chirps. “I don’t see what’s so bad about it. You’ll have a fun time. Weather’s great, this time of year.”

“Of course Sam’s great,” Bucky snaps, “I know Sam’s _great_ , that’s not the problem here, Steve, and you fucking know it.”

Steve blinks at Bucky, blue eyes wide. “Then what _is_ the problem?”

“Sam _hates me_ ,” Bucky hisses, knowing it comes out so horrifyingly desperate he sounds all of about fifteen. Scratch that. Bucky was probably smoother at fifteen than he’s being right now. World’s deadliest assassin, his left ass cheek.

“Sam doesn’t hate you,” Steve says, distracted already by whatever else he’s reading. A briefing for the President, probably, or basically the equivalent. Steve’s busier since he dropped the shield than he ever was before it, for fucks sake.

“I tried to murder him like three times,” Bucky points out, voice hollow. “I still owe him a goddamn steering wheel.”

“That wasn’t you,” Steve says, settling one hand warm and sincere on Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky figures he’s not gonna get anywhere with this except another metaphysical and overly-earnest debate over whether Bucky’s actually responsible for all the shit his body did without him, so.

“You need me on this,” he says instead, and Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

“Okay,” Bucky sighs. “Fine. I can do this. It’s just a week, right.”

It’s gonna be a long week.

 

The quinjet drops them off in Sacramento that afternoon; Daisy’s rented them a car to drive up to Napa, since the standard-issue SHIELD black SUVs pretty much scream ‘government agent’ even though they don’t have actual logos anymore.

“I tried to convince Coulson to lend you Lola,” she says in the back of the jet, passing Bucky their fake IDs, and Bucky laughs a little.

“Bet that was real successful,” he says. Hands Sam his ID without really looking at it, glances at his own. “ _Brad_? Seriously? Come on, you sure this isn’t a punishment mission?”

“Look, you try coming up with other names starting with B, okay,” Daisy tells him. “Sam, the rental car’s booked under your name.”

“Aw, yeah, I never get to drive,” Sam says, grinning wide so the gap in his front teeth is visible. Bucky looks hastily away, tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

“It better not be a Volkswagen again,” he mutters. “One time was enough.”

It’s not a Volkswagen. It’s a perfectly decent late-model sedan, lots of legroom. Bucky stretches out. Looks at Sam’s hands on the steering wheel.

 _Sorry about that time I tried to kill you on the freeway_ , he thinks of saying, and just winds the window down, lets the fresh fall breeze blow hair into his face. It’s nice. Smells good.

 

They pull up at the cottage just before sunset; it’s set off the road, overlooking the vineyards just like Daisy said. So pretty Bucky’s teeth just about hurt from the sweetness.

“Well, this is it, I guess,” Sam says, unlocking the front door and stepping in off the porch. Bucky follows him, their bags slung over his shoulder. Looks around. It’s all light wood and cream walls, soft linen curtains, framed watercolors at carefully spaced intervals. The kind of tastefully minimal aesthetic that Bucky knows, from having met Pepper Potts one time, is probably painfully expensive.

“Looks like this is a bedroom,” he says, opening a door to the left as Sam wanders through into the kitchen. “I call dibs,” he adds, dropping his duffel on the foot of the bed, because the bedroom is _nice_. There’s even an ensuite bathroom.

“You can’t call dibs,” Sam tells him, coming in behind him. Bucky frowns.

“Oh yeah?”

“There’s only one bedroom,” Sam says, matter-of-fact. Bucky pauses. Turns to stare at Sam.

“You’re kidding,” he says. “Funny joke, Wilson.”

“I’m not kidding,” Sam shrugs. “It’s a cottage. One bedroom. You didn’t look at the booking details in your email, huh?”

“Oh my god,” Bucky groans. Closes his eyes for a minute. “ _Fuck_. Fucking Steve, I’m gonna— okay, it’s fine, you take the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Barnes,” Sam says, just as Bucky is picking up his bag, resigning himself to a week of back pain. He’s a hundred and three goddamn years old. “It’s fine. You think I haven’t bunked down with my buddies before? The bed’s huge, we’ll make it work.”

“No,” Bucky says, “no, you don’t have to—”

“I know,” Sam says. “It’s fine, I swear to god. Unless you steal the blankets or try and kill me in my sleep, then I’m kicking you the fuck out.”

“I already tried that three times,” Bucky jokes, “didn’t work, I guess you’re stuck with me,” and something flashes in Sam’s eyes just briefly.

“Yeah,” he says, soft, “guess I am, huh.”

It’s unexpected. Bucky doesn’t really know what to say. Takes a breath, smirks a little, rolls his shoulder like that’ll ease the sudden tension between them.

Jesus, he’s still carrying their bags. He dumps them back on the end of the bed again. Glances sideways at Sam.

“You hungry?”

“I could eat,” Sam agrees. “You wanna see what kind of fancy-ass pizza delivery they got around here?”

“SHIELD is paying, so hell fucking yeah,” Bucky says. “Let’s get something with figs. And goat’s cheese. Maybe some microgreens.”

“We should never have let Ms Potts take you out to lunch that time,” Sam sighs, “they created a monster. Come on, I saw a bunch of takeout menus in the kitchen. _Framed_ menus, so it goes with their aesthetic. It’s gonna be rich person shit for sure.”

 

They manage to agree on a pizza order eventually—half sundried tomato and mushrooms with fresh mozzarella, half prosciutto and arugula, fancy as fuck just like Sam predicted—and then Bucky settles on the couch with his tablet, determined now to go through the rest of the mission dossier with a fine-tooth comb and make sure there’s nothing else Steve conveniently forgot to mention. Sam clears his throat. Hands him a glass.

“What,” Bucky says, a little confused. It’s a glass of wine, deep red. Sam shrugs again.

“There was a bottle on the counter,” he says, like that explains it. “Wine country. Comes free with the cottage rental, apparently. Why not, right?”

Why not. Bucky's got a lot of reasons why, actually, but it's very quiet and very peaceful out here, and Sam is still kind of smiling at him, and they're gonna share a fucking bed tonight; faced with that, Bucky thinks maybe alcohol isn't the worst idea.

 

It’s not like Bucky isn’t used to living with Sam, or anything. They’ve been sharing a SHIELD base for the last eight months. Bucky knows how Sam likes his coffee, what he looks like coming in from a run all gleaming with sweat and panting hard, the way he always stays up about half an hour later than he should so he’s just about falling asleep on the couch by the time someone prods him into going to bed.

“I’m not gonna carry you,” he says, the third time Sam’s head drops heavily onto the back of the couch and jerks back up again. “You fall asleep here, I’m gonna let you sleep on the couch and take that whole bed to myself.”

“And here I was being nice and all, offering to share,” Sam grumbles. “Okay, okay, fine. Shit, I’m not even watching this anyway. Who was the bad guy in the end?”

“I dunno,” Bucky shrugs, “I was reading.” He wasn’t reading, really. Was sneaking glances at Sam over the top of his book. The way Sam’s mouth had fallen slack and soft with sleep. He knows what it looks like—he’s seen it before, Sam sacked out in front of a movie he’s only seen the first third of—but it’s different, somehow, when it’s just the two of them around, and Steve’s not making meaningful expressions at Bucky from across the room.

“Damn,” Sam says, “kinda wanted to know.” He flicks the tv off. Gets up, heads into the bedroom and digs in his duffel bag for his toothbrush, disappears into the bathroom leaving the door open. Bucky follows suit. Squeezes out some toothpaste, starts brushing his teeth, maintaining a careful distance from Sam.

“So,” Sam says thickly through a mouthful of minty foam, “which side you want?”

Bucky leans forward and spits into the sink. “Either,” he says, “doesn’t bother me.”

Sam looks at his mirror reflection for a minute. Leans in to spit out his own mouthful.

“You sure? Don’t want the side further from the door?”

Goddamnit. Bucky _does_ want the side further from the door.

“I mean,” he says carefully, “if that's okay with you.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Sam says. “So long as you don't take over the whole bed, we'll be just fine.”

“I'm not Steve,” Bucky says with dignity, and Sam chuckles; obviously he's shared more than one shitty motel in his time on the road with Steve. Steve forgets, in his sleep, that he's not five foot four anymore.

They settle into bed with only a minimum of awkwardness, careful to maintain a non-contact zone between them. Sam rolls onto his side, facing away from Bucky; in the softly golden lamplight, the nape of his neck is almost too much for Bucky to handle, so he closes his eyes, wills himself to ignore it.

“Well,” Sam says, reaching out to turn out the light, “good night.”

“Yeah, good night,” Bucky murmurs. “Sleep well.”

They’re not touching, but Bucky can feel the warm weight of Sam next to him, can hear his soft and steady breathing. It’s oddly comforting. He hasn’t slept in a bed next to anyone like this for so long he can hardly remember it. It lulls him into sleep, soft and quick.

 

In Bucky's opinion, the time Sam's alarm goes off the next morning is entirely too early.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, burrowing down into the blankets. The bed dips next to him as Sam rolls over and sits up.

“It's six,” Sam says, like that makes perfect sense. “I always get up at six.”

“Have you _ever_ seen me up at six,” Bucky grumbles. “ _Why._ ”

“I gotta go for a run,” Sam says, reasonable, as if that explains it. “We're not all super soldiers, brother. Some of us have gotta work to look this good.”

Sam doesn’t need to work at that in the least, Bucky thinks resentfully. Yanks the blanket up over his head, and Sam laughs softly, prods at the nearest bit of Bucky he can reach. It turns out to be his ass.

“ _What,_ ” he snaps again, throwing the blanket off and glaring at Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows, unimpressed by Bucky's darkest Winter Soldier glower. Actually, he looks like he’s biting back laughter.

“Don't look at me like that, you murder raccoon. Steve's not around, I need a running buddy.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky sighs. Pushes his face down into the pillow. He’s so fucking _warm_. This is the worst. Sam is the worst. “You can’t go by yourself?”

“Get _up_ ,” Sam says, his tone of voice indicating there’s not gonna be any leeway on this, and Bucky sighs again, drags himself out of bed.

“Give me a minute, at least, I gotta get my shit together.”

“Yeah, yeah. God, you’re really not a morning person, huh?”

“I don’t know why that surprises you,” Bucky says, rummaging in his duffel for a t-shirt and some clean sweatpants before he shuffles toward the bathroom. When he glances at himself in the mirror, he sees why Sam was trying not to laugh. His hair is a mess of tangles, flat on one side and sticking straight up in the back. It’s too fucking early to deal with this shit, is Bucky’s opinion on mornings.

He brushes his teeth, drags a comb through his hair to get the worst of the knots out. Changes out of his sleep clothes into his sweats, heads back into the bedroom so he can dig in his bag for a hairtie. He pulls it onto his wrist, shoves his feet into sneakers and wanders into the kitchen, distracted with trying to get all the wisps of hair in the goddamn band at once; when he looks up, Sam’s standing at the open fridge door looking a little stunned.

“What?” Bucky asks, finally getting the motion right so his hair’s actually twisting into a bun. It probably looks a hot mess.

“I,” Sam starts. Shakes his head. “Nothing. There’s no milk, just vanilla creamer. You want that or black?”

“Creamer’s fine,” Bucky shrugs. “You made coffee? Fuck I love you.” It comes out before he thinks about it, sleepy and fervent and fond; Sam just laughs, tips creamer into one of the cups and passes it over.

“Figured it’s the least I could do, getting you up at a normal human hour.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky grumbles. Inhales the steam from the coffee, and then swallows it in about three scalding gulps. “Come on, are we gonna do this thing or what?”

 

It’s actually a very nice run. Bucky has to admit that, however begrudgingly. The air is crisp and cool, the sky softly pink and lilac along the horizon, and once he hits his stride he remembers he even kind of likes running.

“You’re almost as bad as Steve,” Sam pants. “Look at you. You’re not even out of breath, huh.”

“Not my fault. I could breathe heavy at you if it’d make you feel better.”

“You know,” Sam gets out, “I really don’t think it would. At least pretend like this is hard for you, would you?”

It’s extremely hard for Bucky, is the thing. Sam’s t-shirt is damp with sweat, and the rosy light of the sunrise is doing beautiful things for his cheekbones, and fuck, Sam is wearing _shorts_. Bucky considers dropping behind, and then realizes that would only make things worse, having to stare at Sam’s ass and thighs the whole trail. He pulls ahead instead, lengthens his stride, hears Sam snort with laughter.

“Show off!” Sam yells, but it sounds amused, so Bucky’ll take it.

 

When Sam trips, Bucky doesn't see it. Just hears Sam yelp in surprise, and then a thud loud enough that he turns around to find Sam sprawled on his ass in the dirt.

“I'm fine,” Sam says before Bucky can get anything out, “I'm _fine_ , I just stepped on a loose rock and it turned under my foot. Don't laugh.”

“I wasn't gonna,” Bucky says, “you need any help?”

“I'm fine,” Sam says again, more forcefully. Pushes himself to his feet and bites back another cry of pain, and Bucky steps in, takes his weight. “Oh my _god,_ you don't have to pick me up, Jesus. I just rolled it, I gotta stretch it out is all.”

“Sure,” Bucky mutters mostly under his breath, “fine, sure,” but he steps back, watches Sam flex his foot and test out his weight on it. Sam makes a face, sucks air through his teeth, and Bucky rolls his eyes, helps Sam over to a fallen log so he can sit down.

“Just rolled it, huh?”

“It’s a twist, that’s all,” Sam insists. “Don’t make it a big deal.” Bucky’s already unlacing Sam’s sneaker, pulling it off and rotating Sam’s ankle cautiously. It’s a little swollen, tender based on the way Sam hisses at Bucky’s fingers probing over the bone and the arch, but Sam’s right, it’s not a big deal.

“Nothing’s broken,” Bucky tells him anyway. “You’ll live.”

“I _told_ you,” Sam says, “you didn’t have to go taking my shoe off.”

“I was just—” _Worried_ , Bucky is about to say. Bites it back. “Yeah, you’re right, I definitely shouldn’t have. Your socks stink, Wilson.”

“They do not, they’re clean this morning,” Sam grumbles. Shoves Bucky’s shoulder. “Here, give me my fucking sneaker, would you?”

Bucky’s still touching Sam’s foot, he suddenly realizes. His fingers looped around it, thumb rubbing absently over Sam’s instep. He drops his hand away, gives Sam his sneaker. Gets to his feet and watches a little awkwardly as Sam tests his weight again, begins to limp back towards the cottage.

“You probably shouldn’t walk all the way back,” he says, knowing exactly the face Sam is gonna make. “Want me to carry you?”

“I’d like to see you try, Barnes.”

It’s too good a challenge to pass up. Bucky waits until a few minutes have gone by, just long enough that Sam’s not expecting it, and then grabs him, slings him over one shoulder in an easy fireman’s carry. Sam freezes entirely for one long, glorious minute.

“Put me _down_ , what the fuck,” he demands, flailing wildly in Bucky’s grip, and Bucky breaks into a jog, laughing out loud.

“Light as a feather,” he tells Sam. “Hey, maybe carrying you while I run will actually give me a workout, huh?”

“You’re the _fucking worst_ ,” Sam says, darkly mutinous. “I can’t believe I made you coffee.” But he stops kicking, lets Bucky shift his hold into a piggyback, and even tolerates Bucky carrying him all the way back. It’s kind of nice, Sam’s arms looped around Bucky’s neck. Bucky could get used to it. His thighs feel just as good under Bucky’s hands as Bucky thought they would, though, and as soon as he thinks about it he’s gotta devote pretty much all his energy to _not_ thinking about it. It’s a relief when they get inside.

“I thought morning runs were supposed to be relaxing,” he mutters as he deposits Sam into an armchair. “Stay there, I’ll bring you some ice in a dishtowel.”

“Were you always this first-aid oriented?” Sam asks, sounding kind of curious. Bucky glances back at him from where he’s getting ice out of the extremely-fancy freezer.

“Pal,” he says seriously, “you’ve _met_ Steve Rogers. You know someone had to be.”

 

Bucky grabs the first shower while Sam is icing his ankle, and as soon as he’s in it, he has to concentrate not to stay in it for a solid half hour. There’s something to be said for rich people cottages, he’ll give it that.

“Tell me you weren’t jerking off in there,” Sam says when Bucky gets out, and Bucky just stares at him, aghast. He thought about it, yeah, but what the _fuck_. “Seriously, Barnes, the noises you were making, it was obscene. I could hear them from here.”

“It’s a really good shower,” Bucky says with as much dignity as he can manage while he’s in nothing but a towel and his hair is dripping down his face. “The _water pressure_ , holy shit, you gotta try it out.”

It’s clear Sam doesn’t believe him, but he closes the bathroom door, gets the water running, and then a minute or two later Bucky hears Sam groan. Jesus _fuck_ , it is obscene, Bucky feels hot all over just at the sound. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing from his hairline all the way down into his towel.

 _Get dressed_ , he tells himself, _ignore it and get fucking dressed_ , and he’s towelling his hair dry when the water shuts off and Sam opens the bathroom door, looking maybe a little stunned.

“Okay,” Sam says, “I believe you, that is the best shower I’ve ever had in my _life_. Think we can sell some of Steve’s art to fund one of those in the base?”

“He’d only hog it,” Bucky says mournfully, and they share a moment of commiserative silence at the sad truth that is _Steve Rogers hogs the bathroom_. “You done? I need to shave.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s all yours.”

Bucky very carefully doesn’t sneak any glances while Sam is getting dressed. Just shaves, combs his hair out now that it’s closer to damp than dripping, twists it back up into the bun. Sam gives him a look he can’t quite interpret when he reappears, but doesn’t say anything. Bucky rolls up his sleeves. Thinks about breakfast. He’s fucking _starving._

 

There are pastries and fresh fruit in the kitchen, clearly part of the same carefully welcoming attention to detail as the bottle of wine, the candles, the impossibly fluffy towels and fresh ground coffee and wood stacked in the grate just ready to be lit. Bucky eats his way through a pain au raisin, two croissants and a banana, surreptitiously watches a pain au chocolat leave a smudge of chocolate on Sam’s lower lip.

“So, what’s the plan today?” Sam asks, and Bucky clears his throat, reaches for the tablet so he can pull up the mission dossier.

“Winery tour all afternoon. Once we’ve established ourselves I’ll slip away and see what I can find, you cover for me.”

“Wait, why am _I_ covering for you?”

“Because I’m trained in infiltration, and you twisted your ankle,” Bucky points out, and then, before Sam can argue, “and because you’re actually, y’know, good at talking to people. Charming them.”

“Oh,” Sam says, lazily amused, “I’m charming, huh?”

“More charming than me, anyway,” Bucky says. “I used to be real slick, once. Back before all the brainwashing. It’s a real tragedy.”

“I can see that,” Sam says, dry. “Okay. I cover for you, you scope it out. And dinner tonight? What’s that about?”

“Honestly, I think that’s just Agent Johnson messing with us. Probably nicer than ordering in pizza again though, right?”

“I dunno,” Sam shrugs, “pizza and wine was kind of nice. We could light the fire, work on a jigsaw puzzle together, it’d be cozy.”

 _It sure would_ , Bucky’s brain agrees traitorously. Gives him an image of Sam’s face by firelight, the candles lit, glass of wine in hand. In Bucky’s head, Sam is smiling, the very soft and small smile Bucky’s only seen a few times.

“It’d be a waste of the reservation,” he says, before his thoughts can go any further down the line of _Sam Wilson letting Bucky kiss the taste of wine out of his mouth_. “Might as well go along. Plus it gives us another opportunity to investigate, if it’s a dead-end today.”

“True,” Sam agrees. “Okay. Man, if you’re coming on this tour, go put a different button-on, Jesus.”

“What’s wrong with my shirt?” Bucky asks, wounded. “I look just fine.”

“Hmm,” Sam mutters. Gives him an up-and-down, his mouth twisting into another one of those looks Bucky can’t quite interpret. “Fine.”

Bucky changes his shirt. Sam doesn’t say anything about this one; Bucky rolls up his sleeves, adjusts the collar. Reminds himself he’s an infamous and feared assassin. It doesn’t really help.

 

The vineyard tour is entirely too normal. Bucky finds himself fidgeting, and then finds himself _enjoying_ it, which is worse. They’re joined by a group of friends in their late twenties, another couple, and an extremely chipper guide with her hair up in a ponytail. Sam is very friendly; it’s only half an hour or so before he’s chatting easily with the other couple, sharing anecdotes Bucky desperately tries not to find adorable.

Sam nudges him surreptitiously after about ten minutes, his shoulder brushing against Bucky’s.

“Relax,” he murmurs, “stop _scowling_ , you’re looking at everyone with your Asset face. Like they’re your next sniper target.”

Bucky hadn’t really realized he was frowning. He smoothes his face out, smiles awkwardly at Sam. Tucks a strand of hair behind one ear.

“Sorry,” he says, “I’m just. Nervous, I guess.”

“You’re fine,” Sam says, “you’re doing fine. Nobody’s gonna assassinate you.”

“You never know,” Bucky mutters, “that last wine tasted like it might be kind of poisonous,” and Sam throws his head back, laughs hard enough that it attracts attention of the kind that’s all indulgent glances.

“So,” the woman of the couple asks, sipping her tasting glass of chardonnay. Bucky thinks her name might be Vivienne; she’s smiling at them both like they’re the sweetest thing in the world. “How'd you two meet?”

“Oh, he hit me on the freeway,” Sam says easily. Bucky freezes.

“You were in a car accident? Seriously? That's how you met?”

“What can I say?” Sam shrugs. “It was love at first sight. I just looked at him and I knew, this guy is gonna be a pain in my ass for the rest of my life.” He smiles at Bucky, warm and affectionate enough that his dark eyes sparkle. Reaches for Bucky's hand and wraps his fingers around it, squeezes gently. Bucky, through the red haze he's descended into, hears his own breath catch in his throat.

“I hit you on the _freeway?_ ” he hisses as soon as they're alone. Sam shrugs again.

“Technically not wrong, Barnes,” he points out. “Sorry for not coming up with a great cover on the spot. What, you wanted something more romantic?”

“Something that made me sound less _crazy and murderous_ ,” Bucky mutters. Sam's lips twitch.

“Sweetheart, you _were_ crazy and murderous. Anyway, they loved it. Didn't you hear? They ate it up with a spoon. We're sweet _._ ”

“Don't call me sweetheart,” Bucky says, ignoring his inner voice, which is yelling _Jesus fuckin Christ, call me sweetheart again, and also forever._ “We're not sweet. Just— fine. It's fine. Don't worry about it.”

“Fine,” Sam echoes. “Okay.” Takes a step back, and Bucky wants to grab his wrist. Doesn't. Just rubs his temple; he's got a headache brewing right behind his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s fine. I’m gonna go see what I can find, you good to cover for me for a bit?”

“Yeah, go on. I got this.”

“I’ll meet you in half an hour? Text me with your location.”

“Yeah,” Sam says again. “Good luck, Barnes.”

“I don’t need luck,” Bucky tells him, rolling his eyes. “I’m an internationally-feared crazy and murderous assassin.” Sam dissolves into laughter again, and Bucky feels himself smiling as he melts away into the shadows of the vineyard.

 

His search doesn’t uncover anything suspicious at all. If he were guessing, he’d say this was the wrong vineyard, that it’s an entirely innocent operation growing nothing but grapes under the gentle heat of the Napa sunshine. But he’s worked with Agent Johnson enough now to trust her analysis and her hunches: if she says there’s something here, there’s something here. Bucky just hasn’t found it yet.

He rejoins the group, smiling ruefully and tucking his cellphone back into his pocket as if he’s just got off a call.

“Sorry,” he says, “work. Had to take an urgent call, you know how it is.”

“Brad, honey, I _told_ you this was supposed to be a work-free weekend,” Sam chides him. Bucky makes a face.

“Yeah, yeah, tell that to Steve from Marketing. Sorry, babe, I’ll turn my phone off for dinner tonight, I promise.” He leans in a little closer so he can brief Sam without the rest of the group overhearing, feels Sam slide his fingers into the back pocket of Bucky’s jeans. Tries, probably unsuccessfully, not to freeze up at the touch.

“Nothing?” Sam murmurs, wine on his breath, and Bucky shakes his head.

“Guess we’ll have to try again after dinner. Jeez, Wilson, are you _drunk_?”

“No,” Sam says. “I’m just. A little tipsy, that’s all. _You_ try drinking this much wine in the sunshine.” But he doesn’t pull away, just gives Bucky a lazy smile out of the corner of his mouth. Bucky’s heart beats a little faster.

 _Focus on the mission_ , he tells himself, and very resolutely ignores the way Sam’s thumb is brushing against the bare skin of his lower back, just above his waistband. Sam’s keeping up their cover, that’s all. No need to be weird about it.

 

If the wine-tasting was difficult, dinner is excruciating. The restaurant is painfully intimate, warm candlelight and crisp white linen. Bucky expects it to be awkward, all stalled conversation and long stretches of silence, but instead it’s actually weirdly fun. They share appetizers, drink a carafe of wine, bitch about the shittiness of army food.

“Man,” Bucky says, shoving another crostini in his mouth, “I thought C-rations were bad, and then I was fed for seventy years by nasogastric tubes and nutrient slurry shakes, and I _still_ think the chicken fajita MRE is the worst thing I’ve ever eaten. Hydra should have stuck with the shakes.”

“The pork riblet was worse,” Sam tells him, “I’d take nutrient slurry over that mess any time.”

“They didn’t flavor it,” Bucky says, wincing with the memory. “Not even vanilla. It was kind of grayish-beige, tasted like chalk.”

“Wow, Hydra really were monsters.”

“You ain’t wrong,” Bucky agrees. Sips his wine, tries not to think about how nice this is. _This is what dating him could be like_ , his brain suggests, and he pushes it away, sighs a little with relief as their entrees arrive.

“Oh, man,” Sam groans after his first bite of pappardelle ragù with burrata, “you gotta try this, I swear,” and pushes his plate towards Bucky. Okay, apparently they’re at ‘eating off each other’s plates’ stage now, that’s fine, he can—

“ _Oh_ ,” he says out loud, “holy _crap_ that’s good,” and it’s all downhill from there, until they’re bickering over chocolate soufflé, fighting each other for the last bite. It’s a relief to get outside and get started on the actual fucking mission.

 

“I’ve cleared the buildings over there,” Bucky says quietly once they’re standing in the shadows outside, “and there’s nothing in the cellar under the restaurant. We should investigate those warehouses.”

“When did you go down to the cellar?” Sam demands. “Was it when you went to the bathroom for like twenty fucking minutes? I thought you were texting Steve to complain about having to have dinner with me.”

“Why would I complain about that,” Bucky says, distracted. “Look, I’ll take the left side, you take the right, okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “okay,” and they split up, Bucky really feeling the lack of any meaningful weapons on his person right now. _Strictly undercover and recon_ , Steve had said; Bucky would one hundred percent ignore him, but Agent Johnson had reiterated it, and Bucky mostly listens to Daisy these days, so.

Ten minutes later Bucky’s found nothing but barrels of wine, invoices for wine, and something that smells super terrible and is probably the byproduct of producing wine, when there’s the sound of someone yelling in startled surprise across the other side of the warehouse.

“Strictly _recon_ ,” Bucky mutters to himself. Walks as fast as he can while masking his footsteps, trying to make out where he’d heard the commotion. Everything’s silent again, and Bucky risks panning his flashlight, hissing a whisper into the darkness. “Wilson? Where are you?”

No answer. _Shit_ , Bucky thinks, _shit, shit_ , and breaks into a jog, wondering if he’s going to have to break Sam out of a Terrigen smuggling ring kidnap situation. This was not the _goddamn plan_.

“Don’t shine it in my eyes,” Sam says suddenly, and Bucky tries to hide his sigh of relief.

“Jesus Christ, I was worried. What the fuck happened to you?”

“Well,” Sam says, from where he’s pinned against the warehouse wall. “Barnes. I found the Terrigen smuggling operation. Turns out they’ve got at least one Inhuman on their team.”

“Let me guess. Ice powers?”

“What gave it away?” Sam asks, as if he’s not _frozen to the fucking wall_ right now. Bucky sighs, flips his flashlight so he can use the handle to start chipping away the ice encasing Sam.

 

By the time he’s got him free, Sam’s wobbly on his feet, stumbles a little as he tries to walk. Bucky catches his shoulder the second time he trips, slides his arm around Sam’s waist.

“Come on,” he says, “home, you gotta get out of these wet clothes,” and Sam doesn’t argue, just lets Bucky help him back to the cottage. It’s weird deja vu from that morning, Bucky thinks briefly. Wonders how many times he might carry Sam Wilson around, by the end of this mission. If he’s being honest with himself, he’d prefer it was in significantly different circumstances, and maybe without the icily wet clothes that are sticking to both their skins.

“You're freezing,” Bucky says when they get inside, “Jesus, sweetheart, you're cold to the bone, we gotta get you warmed up.”

“T-t-thought you told me not to call you sweetheart,” Sam says weakly, teeth chattering. Bucky makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat.

“I said _you_ couldn’t,” he says. “Come on, let’s get you into the shower, huh?”

He’s about to start the water running when he spots the hot tub through the French doors in the bedroom, and yeah, that’s a way better solution.

“Stop _picking me up_ ,” Sam complains, but he doesn’t actually struggle to get down. Bucky ignores him. Sets him down on the steps of the hot tub, pushes the cover off. Goes to pick Sam up again, and this time Sam fends him off. “Okay, okay, t-t-that’s. Actually a good idea, but shit, don’t put me in with my clothes on.”

“You’re gonna get hypothermia,” Bucky mutters, “or fucking pneumonia, or both,” but he steps back, waits for Sam to strip off. Sam fumbles at his shirt buttons, fingers clumsy. Makes a face.

“I, uh. Might need some help on this.”

 _Of course_ Sam Wilson needs Bucky to undress him, Bucky thinks bleakly. Smothers a sigh, bites the inside of his cheek and concentrates hard on undoing each button, peeling the clammy wet fabric off Sam’s skin. Bites harder when he has to help get Sam’s belt undone, kneeling down to unlace Sam’s shoes and work them off.

“Getting into my pants and you didn’t even buy me dinner first,” Sam jokes, shivering a little, and Bucky glances up at him.

“Sure I did,” he says, deadpan. “Who d’you think paid for pizza the other night?”

“SHIELD got that one, Barnes. Anyway, I’m not that cheap a date. It’s gonna take more than pizza.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bucky says, resolutely ignoring how Sam appears to be flirting with him while Bucky is literally stripping his clothes off. Gets Sam down to his boxer briefs and decides that’s good enough: this is not how he planned on ever seeing Wilson’s dick. “Come on, in you get before you actually catch your death.”

“Didn’t know you cared so much,” Sam murmurs, letting out a soft sigh as he sinks into the hot water. “ _Oh_ , that’s good. That’s. Really good, actually, _fuck_ I was cold.”

“Tends to happen with the freezing,” Bucky says. Pushes himself up to his feet again, and Sam looks up at him.

“What, you’re not getting in?”

“I didn’t nearly get frozen to death,” Bucky points out. Sam frowns.

“What if I come over all weak again and pass out? You gonna let me drown in here?”

“As if that’s likely,” Bucky says, making a face. “Okay, okay, fine. In case you come over all weak again.” His t-shirt and jeans are pretty wet from carrying Sam, actually, unpleasantly cold against his skin, and he kicks off his shoes, strips off his clothes and climbs in, settling down opposite Sam and far enough away he won't accidentally brush up against Sam's bare thighs.

It _is_ pretty nice, actually. The jets bubble against his lower back, the steam rising up off the surface of the water and making his hair curl up into damp wisps. Sam’s got his head tilted back, resting against the edge of the tub, and Bucky lets himself look just a little longer than he probably should.

“Is that really what it’s like?” Sam asks. “Freezing? Fuck, it hurt.”

“Not going into the ice,” Bucky says truthfully. “That bit’s just like falling asleep. Coming out, though. Yeah, that’s what it’s like. Pins and needles all over. Everything hurts.”

“I didn’t know,” Sam says, quiet. Bucky shrugs.

“I didn’t talk about it,” he says, and Sam seems to accept that. Goes quiet, closes his eyes. He’s finally stopped shivering, Bucky thinks. Maybe he’s gonna be okay.

“Wilson,” Bucky says softly, a little later. Sam glances at him, his cheekbones gleaming in the warm light shining from the bedroom doors. Bucky drops his gaze sideways. “Of course I care.”

“Yeah,” Sam says after a pause. “Yeah, Barnes, I know.”

 

“We gotta go back in,” Sam says the next morning. He’s matter-of-fact, dropping it like it’s nothing while nonchalantly buttering a piece of toast. Bucky swallows his mouthful of fancy granola. Glares, disbelieving, at Sam, who just puts his knife down and calmly holds Bucky’s gaze. “Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that. You know it’s true. I didn’t get far enough last night and we need more evidence for SHIELD to come in. They didn’t see my face, it’ll be fine.”

“This is a bad plan,” Bucky mutters into his cereal. Sam’s right, of course he’s right, and that just makes it more galling.

“We should go to the grocery store if we’re gonna stay the full week, I guess. Can’t keep living on fancy restaurants and take-out.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. There’s a store back in town, we can go pick up supplies.”

The drive into town is nice. The Whole Foods they find is even nicer, all organic produce and expensive artisan pasta; Bucky’d be mad about it, but SHIELD is footing the bill, so he just loads up the cart with ravioli and sweet peppers and ricotta, some grass-fed beef, a pint of extremely fancy Italian ice cream.

“You planning to cook for us for the rest of the week or what?” Sam asks, nudging Bucky’s shoulder and looking meaningfully at the cart, and Bucky shrugs, smooths his hair back.

“I can,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “You asking me to? I guess I do owe you dinner.”

“I guess you do,” Sam says, and pauses a moment before adding, “especially if you’re gonna try and get into my pants again.”

Bucky absolutely does not choke on his own spit. “Hey,” he says, with dignity, “you’re the one who got frozen to a wall, okay. I was just doing basic first aid.”

“Oh, sure, make fun of the guy who almost got hypothermia. Hey, I’m getting these chocolate-covered hazelnuts, you want any?”

“They’re twenty dollars a packet,” Bucky says, outraged, and then remembers SHIELD is paying. “Get two.”

 

When they get home, Bucky half-expects Sam to pull on his running gear and go out for a jog. They’d slept later that morning, neither of them stirring when Sam’s alarm had gone off, and Bucky’s not gonna lie: it’d been nice, not getting up at the crack of dawn. Sam’s ankle seems fine, though, and Bucky’s actually a little bit surprised when he just pulls out a book and settles into the couch like he’s gonna be there for a while.

Bucky watches him surreptitiously for a few minutes. Reads the mission dossier again, and when he gets bored with that, makes himself a cup of coffee and casts about the cottage for something to do.

Sam looks up an hour later. Squints at him sitting at the table.

“What are you doing?”

“...A jigsaw,” Bucky says slowly, looking up. Sam’s frowning like he’s somehow displeased. “Why? You got a problem with that?”

“No, it’s just— god, have you never done a jigsaw before, or something? Is that a memory Hydra wiped permanently?”

“What the fuck is wrong with how I’m doing this jigsaw?” Bucky demands, setting down the piece he’s been squinting at for the last five minutes. “What, there are _right_ ways to do a jigsaw?”

“Of course there are!” Sam says, as if he’s shocked Bucky would even ask. He looks very serious. Bucky hides a smile. “Look, you sort all the pieces into color variants, right, and then sub-sort into piles that match by shape. See, like this?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bucky tells him flatly. “That’s _ridiculous_ , Wilson, you’re taking this way too seriously.”

“It just _makes sense_ ,” Sam mutters, but he sits down anyway, starts carefully sorting the pieces into little color-coded piles. Bucky rolls his eyes, but he pushes a few more pieces across the table, watches Sam’s face deep in concentration.

He has to admit, half an hour later: the method makes sense.

“I’m not saying you’re right,” he says, knowing his brows are set into an expression Steve can and has described in the past as ‘mulish’. “But this _is_ faster.”

“Sounds like you’re saying I’m right,” Sam shrugs. “It’s okay. You can admit it.”

“Fine, fine, you’re right. You got any light blue pieces with four arms?”

“Yeah, gimme one minute,” Sam says. “Here, try these.” He grins at Bucky as he drops a handful of pieces into Bucky’s palm. Bucky’s heart does something weird in his chest. At this point, he’s kind of gotten used to it.

 

He makes them dinner that night, just beef pot-roasted with a sauce of red wine and shallots, a pan of fingerling potatoes, spinach sauteed with butter and garlic until it’s tender. Sam’s face still goes soft and surprised when he takes his first bite, and then he points his fork accusingly at Bucky over the table.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Barnes. Six months I’ve been letting Steve cook for us. Six _months_.”

“It makes him feel useful,” Bucky says, shoving a bite of meat and potatoes in his mouth. “Anyway, it’s not so bad. His baked ziti is pretty good.”

“It’s the only thing he knows how to make,” Sam sighs. “Man, this is really good.”

It is actually pretty good. Bucky takes a moment to be smug about it.

 

They head out again once it’s fully dark; Sam’s pretty sure there’s something going on in the right hand warehouse, and Bucky’s willing to go along with it. It’s colder out tonight, the air crisp with a hint of woodsmoke. Bucky turns up his collar, switches on the flashlight.

“I gotta say,” Sam says, glancing sideways at him, “I’m thinking real fondly about that hot tub right about now.”

“I hear you,” Bucky agrees, and then makes the mistake of thinking about Sam in that hot tub. Probably the mission is a better idea. “At least it’s not raining?”

“Don’t jinx it,” Sam says, hitting Bucky lightly in the shoulder. It’s his left arm. Sam winces, shakes his hand out. “Fuck, how do I _still_ fall for that?”

“You were distracted by the beauty of my hair?” Bucky suggests, knowing exactly the eye roll it’ll get out of Sam.

“Yeah, okay, that’s likely. Okay, you take the basement, I’ll take the first floor?”

“Like fuck we’re splitting up again,” Bucky says flatly. He doesn’t have to say _look what happened last time_ ; Sam makes a face, but doesn’t argue. “Come on, might as well clear this level first.”

All they find in forty-five minutes is cobwebs and old wine barrels. It’s not that Bucky’s _bored_ , exactly, but he can’t help feeling a little offended. Criminal enterprises should have the good grace to have their incriminating evidence out in plain sight and not _waste his fucking time_. He and Sam could be sitting in a hot tub right now, for shits sake. When he hears footsteps in the distance, he’s almost relieved for the break.

“Wilson, we’re about to have company,” he warns, trying not to look as if he’s perking up too much. He shouldn’t really be perking up at the thought of a fight, probably.

“Shit,” Sam mutters, and then he’s cupping Bucky’s face, leaning in to kiss him hard. Bucky hears himself make a terribly unflattering squawk of surprise. “Roll with it,” Sam hisses against Bucky’s lips, and it only takes a couple of seconds for Bucky to catch on. They’re maintaining cover. That’s _fine._ He can roll with that.

It’s too easy, actually, to work with what’s going on; he wraps one hand around Sam’s waist, pulls him in closer. Parts his lips and licks into Sam’s mouth, and Sam moans softly, slides his fingers along Bucky’s jaw to the nape of his neck, strokes the tangled wisps of hair behind one ear. Bucky can feel his heart hammering—he’s thought a lot about kissing Sam Wilson, a _lot_ , but Jesus Christ it’s so much better than he imagined—and he hears himself gasping, gets one hand up under the hem of Sam’s shirt so he can spread his fingers flat against the hot skin over Sam’s ribcage.

Sam moans again, pushes Bucky up against the wall of the warehouse, their hips flush against each other, and Bucky groans, closes his eyes and lets his head fall back with a thump. Sam’s mouth on his throat, his _teeth_ , Christ, Bucky might not get out of this alive.

“How many?” Sam whispers against his ear. Bucky shivers at his hot breath, opens his eyes just a fraction. Taps his index finger three times against Sam’s ribs, and feels Sam smile before he grazes his teeth over Bucky’s throat again.

“Hey!” one of the guards says, loud, and Bucky blinks in the sudden brightness of the flashlight playing over them. “What are you doing back here?”

“Oh, jeez,” Bucky says, not having to fake the hot flush of embarrassment as Sam pulls away. He knows they’re both obviously dishevelled, lips swollen from kissing, and he’s not about to look at Sam’s crotch but if it’s anything like his own, probably sporting an uncomfortably obvious erection. “I, uh. God, I’m _so_ sorry, we just went for an evening walk, and kind of, um. Got carried away?”

“I can see that,” the security guard says, clearly trying not to laugh. “This area is off-limits to the public, guys, I’m gonna have to ask you to head back.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Sam says. “We are so sorry, I swear, thanks for being chill about it.” Bucky grabs his hand. Pulls him away, and as soon as they’re out of earshot, hisses, “ _Chill?_ ”

“Pretty sure the guy on the left was the one who froze me to a wall. Maybe it was a bad choice of phrasing, huh?”

“Chill,” Bucky mutters to himself, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He’s still holding Sam’s hand, he realizes a few steps later. He should probably let go, but it’s just… it’s really dark out, that’s all. It’s really dark and they’ve only got one flashlight. It just makes sense.

 

“I guess we should go to bed,” Sam says when they get inside. Bucky nods only a little awkwardly, pulls off his jacket.

“Yeah, it’s, uh. Late.” It’s not that late, not really, but he can’t think of anything better than lying down quietly in a dark room and not having to look at Sam’s horribly beautiful face. “You can use the bathroom first,” he adds, “I’m just going to, uh. Drink some water.” Sam gives him an odd look, but heads into the bathroom anyway, changes into sweats and brushes his teeth, and Bucky takes the chance to strip down to his t-shirt and boxers and take his hair out of the bun, running his fingers through it with a sigh of relief.

“Bathroom’s free,” Sam says, settling into bed and pulling out his book, and Bucky nods, goes to brush his teeth.

“God,” he says without thinking, inspecting his throat in the bathroom mirror. “I think you gave me a bite mark, Wilson, jeez.”

“Sorry for thinking fast in the moment,” Sam says, but he sounds a little weird about it; Bucky looks past his own reflection to see Sam’s face. He’s chewing his lip a little, rubbing his jaw. Bucky clears his throat.

“No,” he says, putting down his toothbrush and climbing into bed, “you’re right, it was a good call. Maintained our cover.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, a note of relief in his voice. “Maintained our cover. _And_ we’ve got a lead on where to investigate tomorrow.”

“Anyway,” Bucky shrugs, prodding at the tender spot under his ear, “I heal quick. Won’t even be a bruise by morning.”

“Right,” Sam says. “Well, uh. Good night.”

“Good night,” Bucky agrees. Reaches over to turn the light out, and then lies very still, trying his hardest not to think about the electric brush of Sam’s lips over his skin.

 

He’s half-afraid he’ll wake up in the night tangled up in Sam, that his subconscious will have him rolling over until he’s pressed up behind Sam, hand drifting down Sam’s thigh. He’s mostly relieved to discover nothing has happened, that they’ve continued to manage a careful distance even while asleep. It’s fine. It’s good.

“Turn your goddamn alarm off,” he mumbles into his pillow, and Sam rolls over, sits up and fiddles with his alarm until it stops making an unholy amount of noise.

“Come on,” he says, and Bucky shakes his head.

“Fuck. No. You want running, you’re on your own. I’m staying in bed. Don’t hurt yourself this time.”

“You’re such a _jerk_ ,” Sam tells him. Disappears into the bathroom to change and brush his teeth, and Bucky kind of expects to get bugged about it again once he comes back out, but in the meantime he lets himself sprawl out into the residual warmth of Sam’s body, tugs the covers up a little higher.

“You’re making breakfast,” he hears Sam say through his half-asleep haze. Bucky mutters something that might be agreement. Buries his head in the pillow, and Sam laughs a little, heads out.

The pillow smells like Sam, warm skin and cocoa butter and woody cologne, and Bucky breathes it in, has a sudden jolt of sense-memory involving Sam’s mouth and Sam’s body against his. Fuck, _fuck_ , he’s suddenly hard, aching with it, and he presses his hips down against the mattress, closes his eyes. He could jerk off, he thinks, Sam’s out of the house and he’s alone, he could get off and nobody would know, and the thought is so overwhelming he has to bite his lip hard, sucks in another breath.

He shouldn’t jerk off in a bed he’s fucking _sharing with Sam_. That’s a terrible idea. But he could get in the shower, could stroke himself slow and slick and wet, and as soon as he’s thought of that he imagines Sam in the shower, water dripping down over him. Maybe he’d let Bucky lather him up with soap, fingertips sliding wet over his chest, his thighs, the dip of his ass. Maybe he’d let Bucky press him up against the wall, kiss him until they’re both gasping for breath, let Bucky slide down to his knees and take Sam’s cock deep into his mouth.

Bucky groans. Palms his dick through his boxers, thinks about Sam tangling his fingers into Bucky’s hair, thrusting into Bucky’s throat. Perhaps Sam would let Bucky spread him out in this bed, would go loose and boneless with pleasure as Bucky kissed his way down Sam’s spine. Maybe he’d let Bucky eat him out, would gasp and beg for it until he’s shaking; Bucky groans again, squeezes just a little.

The door bangs. Bucky’s breath catches in his throat.

“Fuck,” Sam huffs breathlessly, slamming back into the room. “It’s getting hot out there. Feels like it's gonna storm later.”

Bucky freezes guiltily. _Shit_. His hand’s still on his dick, for fucks sake; he can feel himself blushing bright red. His heart’s thumping so hard he’s kind of surprised Sam can’t hear it from across the room.

“Mnfff,” he says, shoving his face deeper down into the pillows and hoping the blankets hide the rest. Sam laughs at him, cracks open a bottle of water and takes a long drink. Bucky, very cautiously, shifts his hand away from his dick and opens one eye to peer at Sam.

“You okay?” Sam asks. Bucky nods jerkily. “You sure? You look kinda flushed.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, “I’m just— mostly asleep, that’s all. Weird dreams.” He’s pretty sure it comes out a little strangled; Sam doesn’t appear to notice, but Bucky yawns widely for good measure.

“You’re _still_ asleep? Come on, man, get up,” Sam tells him, and then he’s tugging off his shirt, wiping off his sweaty face and—ugh, _fuck_ —flinging it at Bucky’s head with a concerning level of accuracy. It’s damp, smells not unpleasantly of cocoa butter and fresh sweat; Bucky’s dick twitches at the combination of Sam’s shirt on his face and the sight of Sam shirtless and sweaty, still panting a little from his run.

“Gross,” he says, scowling. Tosses the shirt off his head and onto the floor. “Go shower, you’re all… wet.” Christ, that was the wrong thing to say, he’s immediately thinking again about Sam in the shower, dripping and soap-slick; he closes his eyes again, takes a deep breath. “Go on, I can smell you from here.”

“Fuck you, you can not,” Sam says mildly, but he disappears into the bathroom anyway, and a minute or two later Bucky hears the shower start running. Bucky lets out a breath very slowly. Rolls onto his back and extremely deliberately contemplates the least sexy things he can think of. Steve giving a lecture to the troops, including helpful diagrams and demonstrations, about using rubbers and not getting the clap. Barton eating a slice of pizza that’s been in his dog’s mouth.

The shower shuts off; Sam comes back out of the bathroom, still gleaming wet with droplets of water clinging to his shoulders, nothing but a towel slung low around his waist. Bucky’s dick immediately makes a real strong effort to perk back up.

“Oh, for _shits sake_ ,” Bucky mutters. Waits until Sam’s back is turned and gets out of bed, makes it to the bathroom and shuts the door very firmly.

 

It only takes a few strokes before he’s spilling all over his fist, his muffled gasp masked by the noise of the shower. He slumps against the tile, tilts his head back into the stream of water.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and tries to pull himself together.

“You alright? You still look kind of red,” Sam says when Bucky gets out into the kitchen, fully dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Bucky shifts a little awkwardly. Tucks his damp hair back behind one ear.

 _I was just fantasising about you in the bed we’re sharing as buddies_ , he doesn’t say, _I came so hard I thought I might literally die_.

“I’m fine,” he says instead. “If you get the coffee on, I’ll make breakfast.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, squinting at Bucky’s face. “Okay.”

He presses his hand to Bucky's lower back as he moves past him in the kitchen, a quick little touch with no thought behind it, and Bucky feels it all the way down to his fingertips. Fuck, _fuck_ , he just-

He wants Sam to touch him like that again, the solid and grounding weight of his hand against Bucky's spine. He wants Sam like this every morning, is all.

 

Steve calls after breakfast, officially for a mission check-in but probably unofficially to check that Bucky and Sam haven’t murdered each other. That’s rich, Bucky thinks; if anyone’s likely to commit murder, it’ll be Steve, or Tony, or Natasha after dealing with three days of Steve and Tony.

“Hey, Steve,” Sam says, grinning sideways at Bucky. “Mission’s going great. Nice place out here, you’re missing out.”

“Yeah? How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Bucky says, “we’re fine. We’re great.”

“Really? Not getting into fights?”

“We fought over the best method for doing a jigsaw puzzle,” Bucky says, smirking back at Sam. “And who got the last bite of chocolate soufflé.” Steve laughs a little down the phone line.

“We’re making progress, but it’s pretty slow,” Sam tells Steve. “Honestly, the most action we had was getting sprung by a couple guards last night. Talked our way out of it, I don’t think they’re particularly smart.”

“Sam fell over,” Bucky adds. “And got frozen to a wall.” Sam pinches Bucky’s thigh hard enough to bruise; Bucky swats his hand away.

“I’m not even gonna ask,” Steve says mildly, ignoring the yelp of pain Bucky had let out. “Sounds like business as usual for the two of you. You got Agent Johnson’s line, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll call her as soon as we’ve got something concrete. Have a good time with Stark.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Steve says. Clicks off the line. Sam glares at Bucky, but it’s the kind of glare that’s gonna turn into a smile in about thirty seconds, so Bucky just settles back against the couch, stares right back.

“You’re such a _shit_ ,” Sam says. “ _Oh, Steve, Sam fell over!_ I bet you were the biggest tattle-tale in grade school.” His impression of Bucky is both distressingly accurate and exceedingly high-pitched; Bucky just rolls his eyes, reaches for the packet of chocolate hazelnuts and pours at least ten of them into his mouth. “Oh, fuck you, give me those,” Sam snaps, and then it’s a straightforward wrestling match of the kind they’ve had about five hundred times already.

 

Sam was right; it feels like it’s gonna storm, the air hot and still and breathless. It’s hard to concentrate on much, and by silent mutual agreement Bucky and Sam settle at opposite ends of the couch with their books, the patio door open to let in what little breeze there is. The storm breaks mid-afternoon, the kind of late summer rainstorm that’s all sudden cracking thunder and heavy fat raindrops. Bucky jumps up to close the door and winds up just standing on the doorstep for a few minutes, breathing in the smell of ozone and wet earth. He’s always loved rainstorms.

“We should go through these personnel files, see if we can match some faces,” Sam suggests, and Bucky's got nothing better to do so he settles down at the kitchen table across from Sam, starts desultorily going through the files.

“This is the guy from last night, right?”

“Oh shit, yeah, that’s him. Mr Freeze, right there.”

“Wait, I thought _I_ was Mr Freeze,” Bucky can’t resist saying, and Sam pauses for a minute before cracking up, his grin gloriously wide. Bucky grins back. Thinks, for maybe the thousandth time, how much he loves that dumb gap in Sam’s front teeth.

 

The storm gets heavier over the course of the next couple of hours, rain coming down in sheets as the sky darkens in between flashes of lightning, and then suddenly, just as twilight is sliding into dusk, the cottage lights flicker and go out entirely.

“Power’s out,” Bucky says unnecessarily. “I can go outside, see if there's a fuse breaker.”

“You’ll get soaked through,” Sam says, but Bucky shrugs.

“A little rain’s never hurt me before. And that lightning is far off enough I don’t think I’m gonna get fried. Be right back.” He grabs the flashlight, heads outside.

Sam wasn’t wrong. He gets soaked through almost immediately, his hair sticking unpleasantly to his face. The breaker box isn’t hard to find, though, and he ducks in under the eaves, opens it up and shines the flashlight on it to see if it’s a simple fix.

“Bad news,” he says five minutes later, “it ain’t the fuses. Power must be out up the line.”

“Well, good news, we’ve got candles. And if it gets cold we can light the fire, right? Shit, man, go dry yourself off, I’m freezing just looking at you.” Just for that, Bucky shakes himself off, droplets of rainwater going everywhere, before he picks up one of the candles Sam’s been setting into saucers and heads to the bathroom to strip off his wet clothes.

He changes into sweatpants, since it’s not like they’re going anywhere, and after hunting through his duffel bag for a good five minutes, gives up and pulls on Sam’s sweatshirt instead. Sam looks up when he comes back into the living room. Narrows his eyes.

“That’s mine,” he says, and Bucky looks down at himself, flexes a little.

“Yeah, it’s kinda tight in the shoulders. Comfortable, though. Nice and soft.”

“You’re _such_ a little shit,” Sam sighs. If Bucky’s optimistic, it maybe even sounds affectionate.

 

With the power out Bucky can’t exactly make dinner; they eat what they can cobble together, salami and cheese and baguette, a bunch of strawberries, the rest of the ridiculously expensive hazelnut candy. It’s kind of like a weird picnic, especially with the fire going and all the candles, and then Sam shrugs, cracks open another bottle of wine.

 _Shit_ , Bucky thinks, because he might be kind of rusty at romance but he knows enough to feel all the warning sirens going off in his head. It’s just— this is _nice_ , that’s all. Whatever. He’s having a nice time.

Sam falls asleep on the couch again; it’s slow but inevitable. Probably it’s got something to do with the two thirds of a bottle of wine he’s drunk, the warm heat of the fire and the softly flickering candlelight, but it’s pretty funny, especially when he starts up a buzzing little snore that Bucky can’t help but immediately video to send to everyone he knows. Maybe Bucky’s just gotten too soft-hearted, but he doesn’t wake Sam up. Just leans down, scoops him up, carries him through to the bedroom.

“You’re,” Sam says blearily as Bucky deposits him on the bed. “You’re wearing my clothes.”

“Yep,” Bucky agrees. They’ve already established this fact, but apparently Wilson wants to go over it again. Whatever.

“Such a little shit,” Sam murmurs. Catches at Bucky’s sleeve. “Looks good,” he adds, through a wide yawn, and settles back into the pillow, letting out another and much louder snore.

Bucky’s heart does the thing he’s getting increasingly used to. _Yeah, yeah_ , he tells himself, and goes to brush his teeth and blow out all the candles.

 

The power’s back on the next morning, which is a good thing given Bucky’s need for coffee and hot showers. Sam looks kind of less into mornings than he usually is, all heavy-eyed and cranky, and Bucky gets coffee brewed, passes him a mug black and extra-sweet the way he knows Sam won’t admit to liking.

“Hungover?” he asks, extremely innocent, and Sam scowls over the rim of the cup.

“Just hoping we get some actual leads today, I’m over all this legitimate winery nonsense.”

“Yeah, agreed on that one,” Bucky says, and in the end they go in in broad daylight, because neither of them is really claiming, at this point, to be a responsible and well-adjusted adult.

 

“This seems kind of more promising,” Sam says ten minutes into the basement, which Bucky would say is jinxing it except he’s leaning toward agreement. There’s still a bunch of wine crap everywhere, but they’ve come across a ledger of orders that’s been filled out in some kind of code, and also: as someone who’s reasonably attuned to criminality, Bucky is picking up a definite vibe.

“I’m gonna investigate that storeroom,” he says, “you take that corridor on the left?”

“What happened to _like fuck we’re splitting up_ , huh?” Sam mutters, but he’s already heading towards the corridor, so Bucky just flashes him a grin, takes the steps down into the storeroom two at a time.

There’s nothing much in it; Bucky’s about to leave when he hears the scrape of something against stone, and turns around just in time to see the door swing closed behind him.

 _Fuck_. Managing to get himself locked in an empty storeroom: not exactly the stuff of excellent SHIELD agents, and also, kind of embarrassing. He wonders if he should call for Sam, decides against it; they don’t know who else might be in here, and if they’re out there with Sam, he doesn’t exactly want to tip them off.

 

He hears Sam’s voice five minutes later, breathes out a sigh of relief which he will, afterwards, one hundred percent deny.

“I’m in here,” he calls, as quietly as he can. Hears footsteps outside.

“Bucky?” Sam asks, sounding nothing so much as extremely worried, which Bucky thinks is frankly an overreaction given the circumstances.

“Yeah, it's me,” he says through the door. “Door swung shut, I got locked in.”

“Jesus, I've been looking everywhere,” Sam says, “you disappeared on me for like an hour.”

“An _hour_? It's only been five minutes. Ten, max.”

“Bucky, it's gone four,” Sam tells him, and that can’t be right, Bucky thinks. Blinks, tries to track back his memories of the afternoon. It’s harder than it should be.

“...Oh,” Bucky says. “Shit, Sam, I'm sorry.”

“It's fine,” Sam says, “it— I was just… Never mind.”

“You missed me, baby?”

“Nah, it was nice having a little peace and quiet for a change,” Sam says, and even through the door Bucky can hear him rolling his eyes.

“Whatever, you totally missed me. Hey, plus side, I think I figured out what their other Inhuman is bringing to the team.”

“Yeah? What's that?”

“Memory manipulation,” Bucky says, shaking his head like it'll clear the slight fogginess behind his eyes. “Pretty sure I bumped into someone and they did a whammy on me before locking me in here to deal with later. Shit, that's embarrassing, ain't it. Some feared assassin I am. _And_ I'm fuckin’ tired of people fiddling with my head, my memory's bad enough as it is.”

“Well, _I_ figured out how they're smuggling the Terrigen, so I win,” Sam says only a little smugly. “I'll show you once we're out of here.”

Right. Escaping. Should probably do that, Barnes.

“Step back,” Bucky says, “I'll kick out the door.”

“If you do that it'll tip them off that you’re more than just a lost tourist,” Sam points out. “Hold on, gimme a minute.”

“What, you think there'll be a key just lying around?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I think,” Sam sighs, put-upon, and then Bucky hears the faint noises of someone picking the lock. He waits, biting back all his questions like _where the fuck did you learn that_ , and after a minute or two the door swings open.

“Huh,” he says, neutral. “Thanks.”

“I got up to some shit in my youth,” Sam says like it's nothing. “Learned some useful skills, some not so useful.”

“The fuck were the unhelpful ones?” Bucky asks.

“I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue,” Sam shrugs, and on that note they get the fuck out of Dodge while the coast is clear.

 

“Okay,” Sam says when they get back into the cottage. “You want to see a magic trick?” He lifts the bottle of wine he’s been carrying, digs in the kitchen drawer for the corkscrew.

“The Terrigen is in the wine? The wine we've been _drinking_?”

“No,” Sam says, “look,” and tilts the bottle to start draining it into the sink, his fingers spread out underneath it like he's waiting to catch something.

“Wait,” Bucky says, catching on, “let me. I'm pretty sure I'm immune to Terrigenesis, what with the serum and all.”

“You afraid I might sprout wings or something?” Sam asks, long-suffering, but he passes the bottle to Bucky anyway. Bucky empties it carefully, watching the deep red wine trickle out over his fingers and down the drain.

“Fuck, what a waste of a good Sangiovese,” he sighs, and then feels something solid land in his palm. A Terrigen crystal, small enough to fit through the neck of the bottle. “Huh, would you look at that. How the fuck did you figure that out, Wilson?”

“They’ve got a manufacturing room where they’re seeding the crystals in the bottles,” Sam explains, watching as Bucky holds up the tiny blue crystals to the light. “Then they just fill the wine over the top, mark the label, ship it out as above-board export product.”

“Time to call Agent Johnson, huh?”

It is. It’s time to call Daisy.

“We’ll send in a team,” she says, sounding excited; Bucky knows taking down Terrigen rings is always kind of personal for her. “You think it’s urgent?”

“I’m pretty sure they thought I was just a dumb tourist,” Bucky tells her, hoping he’s right. “If they were onto me, they would have dealt with me differently. I don’t think we’ve tipped them off. It’s a job for the Secret Warriors, though, they’ve got at least two Inhumans on their side.”

“Good intel,” Daisy says, “thanks. Good work, Sam. I’ll put together the team for a mission in the next day or two, we’re kind of stretched thin right now. You gonna head back tonight?”

“It’s getting kind of dark,” Sam says. “Might stay another night.”

“Yeah, okay, Agent Wilson, enjoy the hot tub,” Daisy says, the smirk clearly audible in her voice, and then she ends the call before either of them can deny it.

“I mean,” Sam says after a minute or two, “it _is_ a pretty nice hot tub, I’ll give it that.”

“Be kind of a waste not to use it again,” Bucky says, carefully neutral. They make eye contact. Look away.

“Come on,” Sam says, “I’m in if you are,” and yeah, Bucky’s in. Bucky’s all the way in.

 

“ _Terrigen_ ,” Bucky says an hour later. “In the _wine_. Fuck this place is bourgeois.”

“You’re not wrong,” Sam agrees. “Food’s good, though.”

“You like my cooking,” Bucky says. “Just admit it.”

“I’d like your cooking better if you did more of it when we get back to base. Save me from Steve and his baked fucking ziti. It’s just so _bland_.”

“Fine, fine,” Bucky sighs, “I’ll cook for you, Wilson. One condition.”

“Hmm?”

“Let me keep your sweatshirt.”

“You _little shit_ ,” Sam says, and this time it definitely comes out affectionate.

 

Getting into bed, Bucky tries very hard not to think about how this is the last night he and Sam will be sleeping side by side. _Buddies_ , he tells himself, and turns out the light.

When Bucky wakes up, Sam is pressed up behind him, his hand resting on Bucky’s hip and fingers just barely touching bare skin. Bucky is warm and comfortable, still half-asleep, and he doesn’t really question it. Just tugs the covers up, lets his eyes slide closed again.

Sam’s hand drifts further up under Bucky’s t-shirt. Behind him, Sam makes a sleepy little noise, shoves his nose in against the nape of Bucky’s neck. The tip of his nose is cold, but Bucky is very warm, so he figures he’ll allow it.

Sam’s mouth brushes Bucky’s skin, soft, and his hips rock forward just a little. Bucky feels himself flush hot from the roots of his hair all the way down to his toes. Oh god, oh _god_ , Sam is spooning Bucky and _grinding on his ass_ , this is not— this is not _fair_ , Bucky thinks, he is not _equipped to cope with this._ That’s Sam’s _dick pressing into his ass_ , Jesus Christ, this is the least fair thing that’s ever happened to him, and that’s including Hydra cutting his arm off.

He tries, carefully, to extricate himself from the situation without waking Sam up. It doesn’t work. Sam just tightens his grip on Bucky’s hip, groans something unintelligible into Bucky’s hair.

“Sam,” he whispers, trying very hard not to make a big deal out of it. Sam’s just asleep, that’s all. They’ve been sharing a bed, and Sam’s just asleep, and this is all— they’re gonna laugh about it later, or maybe never talk about it, either one is fine.

“Mrr,” Sam mutters. Doesn’t let go. Bucky tries again to free himself. It doesn’t work, but at least he manages to roll over so he and Sam are curled into each other like two inverted commas, their knees pressing together and an empty space between them. Sam huffs out a quiet sigh, slides one foot in between Bucky’s calves. It’s very, very easy to drift back to sleep.

 

Bucky wakes up again very slowly. He’s warm all over, tangled up in someone else’s limbs, and it seems like the most natural thing in the world to pull them in a little closer, to brush a kiss to their forehead and breathe them in. It feels so familiar, is the thing, and he’s mostly still asleep but he thinks he might never have been this contented.

The person opposite him hums under their breath. Runs their fingers down the bare skin of Bucky’s spine. _Sam_ , Bucky’s brain supplies distantly, and then Sam flattens his palm against Bucky’s ribs, hums again like he’s also feeling extremely content with the situation and life in general. Hooks his leg up over Bucky’s hip and uses the leverage to tug Bucky in closer until their hips are pressed flush, and _oh_ , that’s so— that’s so good, that’s, right _there_ , Sam’s hands are on his skin and Sam’s mouth is so close to his, Bucky could just lean in and close that last fraction of distance and do what he’s been wanting to do for so fucking long—

Sam's alarm goes off.

“Jogging,” Bucky says desperately, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling, extremely and painfully aware of Sam's proximity. “We should— jogging.”

“Yeah,” Sam says breathlessly beside him. “I'll just, uh. Yeah. Jogging. Sounds good.”

They don't look at each other while they're getting ready. _What exactly are we doing here_ , Bucky wants to say, but asking would probably require making eye contact, and he’s not entirely sure right now that he could actually make eye contact with Sam Wilson without backing him up against the nearest wall and kissing him until he’s completely out of breath.

 

They continue to avoid discussion of any kind while they’re jogging—the least enjoyable and most sexually charged morning run Bucky’s ever been on—and then they get back into the house and Bucky thinks, _oh, fuck, we’re gonna have to be naked in the same goddamn house._

“You can take the first shower,” he says, just as Sam's saying, “you have the first shower, man,” and they awkwardly both try to step around each other at the same time, just about colliding.

Bucky looks up. Locks eyes with Sam, and that's it, that's _fucking it_ , they're crashing together, kissing hot and hard and desperate. They're both damp and slick with sweat and it's fucking fantastic, Sam biting at his mouth, Bucky's hands up under his shirt again. It's as good as the night outside the warehouse, better, because Sam is rocking his hips up against Bucky's and that's his cock unmistakably hard through his sweatpants.

Bucky moans. Pushes his thigh in between Sam's legs and feels Sam grind down against it, and then Sam is yanking at Bucky's t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head so he can lick his way down Bucky's throat to his shoulder.

“Gonna leave you with bruises again,” he gasps, sinks his teeth in like he's making his point. “I swear, Barnes, you told me I'd given you a bite mark, I nearly fucking went up in flames.”

“ _You_ did,” Bucky says, voice pitching up as Sam nips at his collarbone, “imagine what it was like for me while you were _doing it_.”

“You liked it,” Sam shrugs, and Bucky tilts his head to the side so Sam can get at his throat.

“Of course I liked it,” he agrees, “it was— _fuck—_ it was the best goddamn thing that's happened to me in seventy years. Jesus, get your shirt off, I wanna look at you.”

“You've _been_ looking at me,” Sam says, but he pauses just long enough for Bucky to get him half naked, and Bucky spans his hand reverently over Sam's chest, rubs his thumb over one nipple and catches how Sam moans. “Seriously, you think I haven't seen how you've been looking at me? You're not exactly subtle about it.”

“Yeah, well, have you seen yourself? The fuck was I supposed to do, sweetheart, I've got eyes.”

“You saying I look good?”

“No,” Bucky says, scratching his nails down Sam's spine just to hear the noise he makes. “You look better than good, _Christ_ , I want to take you apart.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” Sam says, and palms Bucky’s dick through his pants, rubbing just hard enough that Bucky gasps.

“Don't stop,” Bucky breathes, suddenly even more desperate. “Jesus Christ, don't stop.”

“Wasn't planning on it,” Sam says, and then his hand is sliding down into the waistband of Bucky's sweats, fingers wrapping around his dick. “You jerked off in here,” he says, stroking Bucky's dick excruciatingly slowly. “You got hard in the bed we're sharing and you came in here and jerked off in the shower. Were you thinking about me, Barnes? Imagining this?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky says, feeling already comprehensively taken apart by all this. “Yeah, _yes_ , I— fuck, I know I shouldn’t, I just— you, the, you _kissed_ me and you left a goddamn _bite mark_ on me and it was so, you’re so— I just _wanted_ , Sam, that’s all.”

“Yeah? What’d you want?”

“I want to get on my knees,” Bucky gasps, compulsively honest. “I want your hands in my hair while I suck your dick, I want to make you come with my mouth. I want to take you to bed and do it all over again.” Sam twists his hand, thumb sliding slick over the head of Bucky’s cock, and Bucky whines in the back of his throat, thrusts up into it. He’s so fucking close, Jesus goddamn _Christ_ , and maybe this is just— maybe this is just an outburst of pent-up sexual tension thanks to close quarters and weird intimacy for the last week, maybe that’s all it is, maybe that’s all it’s gonna be, but it’s so fucking good he wants to imprint the memory of it under his skin.

“ _Sam_ ,” he gasps again, and Sam’s right there kissing him back, and that’s it, that’s it, Bucky’s coming hard into Sam’s hand, his legs going out from under him and Sam’s got him, Sam’s got him.

 

“Get in the shower with me,” Sam says after a minute or two, and Bucky blinks, takes a deep breath, tries to push himself back into some semblance of functioning.

“The shower,” he repeats, and Sam nods, nips lightly at his lower lip.

“Yeah,” he says, “the shower. Someone’s gonna get on their knees and suck my dick, is what I heard,” and holy _fucking blessed Mother_ , Sam saying that—Sam dirty-talking him at all, fuck—is the hottest thing Bucky’s ever goddamn heard.

It’s better than he imagined. It’s so much better than he imagined. Sam’s dick is hot and thick, filling his mouth, and Sam leans back against the shower tile, groans loud, settles his hand into Bucky’s hair like he’s taking charge or ownership. Bucky rubs his thumb over Sam’s hipbone, breathes in and then out, devotes himself to making Sam forget how to use words. It’s extremely, spectacularly successful.

 

They wind up back in bed afterwards, still a little damp from the shower, and it’s like neither of them are quite willing to stop touching each other now that they’ve started.

“This is a thing,” Bucky says, managing—just—to not make it a question. Sam smiles. Kisses Bucky’s fingertips when Bucky touches his mouth.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s a thing. Good job on catching up.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Bucky says, defensive suddenly. “I was just— I was glad we were at _buddies_ stage, okay, I was still trying to figure out how to apologize for stealing your steering wheel,” and that makes Sam laugh for a solid five minutes, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re slow on the uptake,” he says eventually. “That’s okay, Barnes. You got brain problems, I understand.”

“You’re such a _jerk_ ,” Bucky sighs. Can’t even hold himself back from smiling.

“And you’re a little shit, so we’re even. Come here, man. You gotta kiss me again at least like fifteen times.” It’s a demand Bucky is entirely happy to give in to.

Sam’s got scars on his shoulder, his ribs; Bucky’s seen them before—in the hot tub, when Sam’s been fresh out of the shower or changing his shirt—but now he touches them, drags his fingertips lightly over the patch of shiny lighter brown skin on Sam’s shoulder-blade that can only be a long-healed burn.

“Exo suit didn’t always work so great,” Sam shrugs. “There were accidents, at the beginning,” and then, as Bucky trails his fingers down Sam’s side to the puckered bullet hole just under his bottom rib, “friendly fire, just outside Bagram.”

“Lucky it didn’t hit anything major,” Bucky says. Spreads his palm flat over it like maybe he can keep Sam safe belatedly.

“Lucky,” Sam agrees. Looks down at the scars Bucky’s got, a roadmap of his own, and raises his eyebrows.

“Knife fight in Serbia,” Bucky tells him, nodding down at the twisted knot of scarring on his own ribs, just about the same spot. “And down lower, that’s some shrapnel from a car bomb. Colombia, maybe? I dunno, that whole era is kind of a mess.”

“ _You’re_ a mess,” Sam says, smiling, as he runs his fingers through the hopeless tangles of Bucky’s hair. “Fuck, I’m sleepy. You think we could get away with a nap?”

“It’s a luxury vineyard retreat,” Bucky shrugs. “I think we can do whatever we want.”

 

They might nap for forty minutes or two hours; Bucky doesn’t know, exactly, but he wakes up feeling languorous and fucked-out and extremely fucking content, except—

“Sam, sweetheart, wake up.”

“‘m awake,” Sam mutters. Presses his lips against Bucky’s neck, just where it meets the curve of his shoulder. “You’re warm. And you smell good. Go back to sleep, I’m not done napping.”

“That's,” Bucky says. “Gonna be. Kind of hard.” He swallows as soon as he's said it— _hard_ , Jesus Christ—and Sam pauses for a moment before laughing softly under his breath.

“Yeah? Something on your mind, Barnes?”

“Something on my _ass,_ ” Bucky retorts. Sam's breath catches.

“ _Oh,_ ” he says, like he's just woken up enough to figure out exactly what's going on.

“I'm not complaining,” Bucky clarifies, feeling brave; it's easy to be honest, in the warm softness of their room and Sam's body against his. “I just. Figured, uh. It might be more than you intended.”

“You're not complaining?”

“Nope,” Bucky says firmly. “Really not.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “Good. Because you woke me up and now I'm intending.”

“Oh, thank god,” Bucky sighs, “I desperately want you to fuck me. Like, _desperately_.”

“Shit, I didn’t pack any lube, did you?”

“I bet they’ve got some kind of supplies in the bedside drawer,” Bucky guesses, hoping he’s right. “Expensive shampoo in the bathroom, pastries in the kitchen, what’s the bet the bedroom’s just as well stocked?”

“It’s a vacation cottage, not a sex hotel,” Sam says, but he rolls over anyway, pulls open one of the drawers.

It’s stocked with condoms and lube. Bucky fucking _loves_ this vacation cottage.

 

Daisy calls again that afternoon, just as Sam and Bucky are taking a break from marathon sex to eat snacks in bed. It’s the kind of wholly unnecessary louche habit Bucky’s never had a chance to indulge in before; he suspects it’s gonna be a cruel return to reality when they have to check out.

“Mission’s a go for tomorrow,” Daisy confirms, “you’re all good to come back to base, guys, we’ll take it from here.”

Fuck. Yeah, definitely gonna be a cruel return to reality. _Base_ , ugh.

“Wait,” Sam whispers. Taps the inside of Bucky’s wrist. “Agent Johnson? We’ll stay put for now, just in case there’s any loose ends that need tying up. Might as well, right? I mean, we’ve got the reservation through the end of the week.”

“If you say so,” Daisy says, sounding a little confused. “See you when you get back, I guess.”

“Why—” Bucky starts as soon as Sam hangs up the phone. Sam shrugs.

“We could go back to the base,” he says. “Back to the communal bathroom, never get a minute’s peace, suffer through Steve’s cooking again. _Or_ we could stay here and enjoy the reservation for the rest of the week, just the two of us.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, understanding dawning on him. “ _Oh_. Jesus, sweetheart, you’re a genius.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, smug. “I know. You wanna go make out in the hot tub for an hour?”

“Shit yes,” Bucky agrees fervently. Honestly, he’s been wanting to do that since the first time they got in the hot tub. This assignment was the best fucking idea ever.

 

**Author's Note:**

> WINE COTTAGE PINING: in which the author rolls around in the tropiest bullshit ya gal can lay down
> 
> honestly tho I was basing this cottage off the actual wine cottage I stayed in and it was 1) glorious and 2) extremely bougie
> 
> come find me [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/)


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